PROFESSOR STOKES ON IMMORTALITY.

The orthodox world makes much of Sir G. G. Stokes, baronet, M.P., and
President of the Royal Society. It is so grateful to find a scientific
man who is naively a Christian. Many of the species are avowed, or,
at any rate, strongly suspected unbelievers; while others, who make a
profession of Christianity, are careful to explain that they hold
it with certain reservations, being Christians in general, but not
Christians in particular. Sir G. G. Stokes, however, is as orthodox as
any conventicle could desire. Perhaps it was for this reason that he was
selected to deliver one of the courses of Gilford Lectures. He would
be a sort of set-off against the rationalism of Max Muller and the
scepticism of Tylor. What other reason, indeed, could have inspired
his selection? He has not the slightest reputation as a theologian or
philosopher, and one of the leading reviews, in noticing his Clifford
Lectures, expresses a mild but decided wonder at his appearing in such a
character.

Let the Gifford Lectures, however, pass—for the present. We propose to
deal with an earlier effort of Sir G. G. Stokes. Nearly two years ago
he delivered a lecture at the Finsbury Polytechnic on the Immortality of
the Soul. It was reported in the Family Churchman, and reprinted after
revision as a twopenny pamphlet, with the first title of "I." This is
the only pointed thing about it. The lecture is about "I," or, as Sir G.
G. Stokes, might say, "All my I."

Sir G. G. Stokes begins by promising to confine himself to the question,
"What is it that personal identity depends upon and consists in?" But
he does not fulfil the promise. After some jejune remarks upon this
question he drops into theology and winds up with a little sermon.

"I cannot pretend that I am able to answer that question myself," says
Sir G. G. Stokes. Why, then, did he not leave it alone? "But I will
endeavor," he says, "to place before you some thoughts bearing in that
direction which I have found helpful to myself, and which possibly may
be of some help to some of you."

Sir G. G. Stokes does not mention David Hume, but that great thinker
pointed out, with his habitual force and clearness, that personal
identity depends upon memory. Our scientific lecturer, with the
theological twist, says it "involves memory," which implies a certain
reservation. Yet he abstains from elucidating the point; and as it is
the most important one in the discussion, he must be held guilty of
short-sightedness or timidity.

Memory involves thought, says Sir G. G. Stokes. This is true; in fact,
it is a truism. And what, he asks, does thought depend on? "To a certain
extent" he allows that it "depends upon the condition of the brain." But
during the present life, at any rate, it depends absolutely on the
condition of the brain Look at the head of an idiot, and then at the
head of Shakespeare; is not the brain difference the obvious cause of
the mental difference? Are there not diseases of the brain that affect
thought in a definite manner? Is not thought excited by stimulants, and
deadened or even annihilated by narcotics? Is it not entirely suspended
in healthy sleep? Will not a man of genius become an imbecile if his
brain softens? Will not a philosopher rave like a drunken fishfag if he
suffers from brain inflammation? Is not thought most vigorous when
the brain is mature? And is it not weakest in the first and second
childishness of youth and old age?

The dependence of thought on the brain is so obvious, it is so
demonstrable by the logical methods of difference and concomitant
variations, that whoever disputes it, or only allows it "to a certain
extent," is bound to assign another definite cause. A definite
cause, we say; not a fanciful or speculative one, which is perfectly
hypothetical.

Sir G. G. Stokes does not do this. He tries to make good his reservation
by a negative criticism of "the materialistic hypothesis." He takes the
case of a man who, while going up a ladder and speaking, was knocked
on the head by a falling brickbat. For two days he was unconscious, and
"when he came to, he completed the sentence that he had been speaking
when he was struck." Now, at first sight, this seems a strong
confirmation of "the materialistic hypothesis." A shock to the brain
stopped its action and suspended consciousness. Automatic animal
functions went on, but there was no perception, thought, or feeling.

When the effects of the shock wore off the brain resumed its action, and
began at the very point where it left off. But this last circumstance
is seized by Sir G. G. Stokes as "a difficulty." Some change must have
gone on, he says, during the two days the man lay unconscious; there
must have been some waste of tissues, some change in the brain; yet
"there is no trace of this change in the joining together of the thought
after the interval of unconsciousness with the thought before."

Our reply is a simple one. In the first place, Sir G. G. Stokes is
making much of a single fact, which he has not weighed, in despite of a
host of other facts, not in the least questionable, and all pointing in
one direction. In the second place, he does not tell us what change
went on in the man's brain. May it not have been, at least with respect
to the cerebrum, quite infinitesimal? In the third place, Sir G.
G. Stokes should be aware that all brain changes do not affect
consciousness, even in the normal state. Lastly, consciousness depends
upon perception; and if all the avenues of sensation were closed, and
the alteration of brain tissues were exceedingly slight (as it would be
if the brain were not working), it is nothing very extraordinary that
the man should resume thought and volition at the point where they
ceased.

The second "difficulty" raised, rather than discovered, by Sir G. G.
Stokes is this. "I am conscious of a power which I call will," he says,
"and when I hold up my hand I can choose whether I shall move it to the
right or to the left."

"Now, according to the materialistic hypothesis, everything about me is
determined simply by the ponderable molecules which constitute my body
acting simply and solely according to the very same laws according to
which matter destitute of life might act. Well then, if we follow up
this supposition to its full extent, we are obliged to suppose that,
whether I move at this particular moment of time—4.25, on the 30th of
March—my hand to the right or to the left, was determined by something
inevitable, something which could not have been otherwise, and must have
come down, in fact, from my ancestors."

Now Sir G. G. Stokes "confesses" that this seems to him to "fly
completely in the face of common sense." And so it does, if by
"determined" he means that somebody settled the whole business, down
to the minutest details, a thousand, a million, or a thousand million
years ago. But if "determined" simply means that every phenomenon
is caused, in the philosophical—not the theological or
metaphysical—meaning of the word, it does not fly in the face of common
sense at all. Little as Sir G. G. Stokes may like it, he does—body
and brain, thought and feeling, volition and taste—come down from his
ancestors. That is the reason why he is an Englishman, a Whig, a bit of
a Philistine, an orthodox Christian, and a very indifferent reasoner.

After all, does not this objection come with an ill grace from a
Christian Theist? Has Sir G. G. Stokes never read St. Paul? Has he
never heard of John Calvin and Martin Luther? Has he never read the
Thirty-nine Articles of his own Church? All those authorities teach
predestination; which, indeed, logically follows the doctrine of an
all-wise and all-powerful God. Yet here is Sir G. G. Stokes, a Church of
England man, objecting to the "materialistic hypothesis" on the ground
that it makes things "determined."

Professor Stokes next refers to "something about us" which we call
"will." This he proceeds to treat as an independent force like magnetism
or electricity. What he says about it shows him to be a perfect tyro
in psychology. At the end of the section he exclaims, "So much for that
theory"—the materialistic hypothesis; and we are tempted to exclaim,
"So much for Sir G. G. Stokes."

Next comes the "psychic theory," according to which "man consists of
body and soul." Here the Professor shows a lucid interval. He points out
that if the soul is really hampered by the body, it is strange that a
blow on a man's head should "retard the action of his thoughts." He also
remarks that, according to this theory, the "blow has only got to be
somewhat harder till the head is smashed altogether, and the man is
killed, and then the thoughts are rendered more active than ever."
Which, as our old friend Euclid observes, is absurd.

Professor Stokes dismisses the "body and soul" theory as "open to very
grave objections." He admits that it is held by "many persons belonging
to the religious world," nevertheless he does not think it can be
"deduced from Scripture," to which he goes on to appeal.

Now we beg our Christian friends to notice this. Here is the great Sir
G. Gr. Stokes they make so much of actually throwing up the sponge.
Instead of showing scientifically that man has a soul, and thus
cheering their drooping spirits, he leaves the platform, mounts the
pulpit, and plays the part of a theologian. In fact he can tell them no
more than the ordinary parson who sticks his nose between the pages of
his Bible.

With regard to the Scripture, it will afford very little comfort to
the Christians to know that Professor Stokes does not believe that it
teaches the immortality of the soul. He supports this view by citing
the authority of the present Bishop of Durham and "another bishop," who
regard the doctrine of an immortal soul as no part of a Christian faith.
Had Sir G. G. Stokes been better read in the literature of his own
Church, he might have adduced a number of other divines, including
Bishop Courtenay and Archbishop Whately, who took the same position.

"Well, what do we learn from Scripture?" inquires Professor Stokes.
And this is his answer. "In scripture," he says, "man is spoken of
as consisting of body, soul, and spirit." And in Sir G. G. Stokes's
opinion it is the third article which "lies at the very basis of life."
It is spirit, "the interaction of which with the material organism
produced a living being" in the Garden of Eden.

Here we pause to interject a reflection. Ordinary Christians believe in
body and soul; Professor Stokes believes in body, soul, and spirit.
That is, he says man is made up of three instead of two. But in step
our Theosophic friends, who pile on four more, and tell us that man is
sevenfold. Now who is right! According to their own account they
are all right. But this is impossible. In our opinion they are all
wrong. Their theories are imaginary. All they know anything of is
the human body.

But to return to Professor Stokes's excursion in the region of Biblical
exegesis. Never have we met with anything more puerile and absurd. He
finds "soul" and "spirit" in the English Bible, and he supposes them
to be different things. He even builds up a fanciful theory on the fact
that the expression "living soul" occurs in the New Testament, but he
does not remember the expression "living spirit." Hence he concludes
that spirit is not "living" but "life-making."

Surely a little knowledge is a dangerous thing, and Professor Stokes is
a capital illustration of this truth. We get "soul" and "spirit" in the
New Testament, as well as in the Old, simply because both words are used
indifferently by the English translators. This is owing to the composite
character of the English language. One word comes from the Greek, the
other from the Latin, and both mean exactly the same thing. The Hebrew
ruach, the (Greek pneuma), and the Latin spiritus, all originally
meant the breath; and as breathing was the most obvious function of
life, persisting even in the deepest sleep, it came to signify life,
when that general conception was reached; and when the idea of soul or
spirit was reached, the same word was used to denote it. All this is
shown clearly enough by Tylor, and is corroborated by the more orthodox
Max Muller; so that Professor Stokes has fallen into a quagmire, made
of the dirt of ignorance and a little water of knowledge, and has made
himself a laughing-stock to everyone who possesses a decent acquaintance
with the subject.

Whatever it is that Professor Stokes thinks a man has apart from his
body, he does not believe it to be immortal. The immortality of the soul
and a future life, he says, are "two totally different things." The one
he thinks "incorrect," the other he regards as guaranteed by Scripture;
in other words, by Paul, who begins his exposition by exclaiming "Thou
fool!" and ends it by showing his own folly. The apostle's nonsense
about the seed that cannot quicken unless it die, was laughed at by the
African chief in Sir Samuel Baker's narrative. The unsophisticated negro
said that if the seed did die it would never come to anything. And he
was right, and Paul was wrong.

There is a resurrection, however, for Paul says so, and his teaching
is inspired, though his logic is faulty. Men will rise from the dead
somehow, and with "a body of some kind." Not the body we have now.
Oh dear no! Great men have thought so, but it is an "incredible
supposition." Being a chemist, Sir G. G. Stokes sees the ineffable
absurdity, the physical and logical impossibility, of this orthodox
conception, which was taught by Mr. Spurgeon without the slightest
misgiving, and upheld by the teaching of the Church of England.

But what is it that will rise from the dead, and get joined with
some sort of inconceivable body? We have shown that Professor Stokes's
distinction between "soul" and "spirit" is fanciful. It will not do for
him, then, to say it is the "spirit" that will rise, for he denies,
or does not believe, the renewed life of the "soul." Here he leaves us
totally in the dark. Perhaps what will rise is "a sort of a something"
that will get joined to "a sort of a body" and live in "a sort of a
somewhere."

"What," asks Professor Stokes, "is man's condition between death and the
resurrection?" He admits that the teaching of Scripture on this point is
"exceedingly meagre." He inclines to think that "the intermediate state
is one of unconsciousness," something like when we faint, and thus, as
there will be no perceptions in the interval, though it be millions of
years, we shall, "when we breathe our last," be brought "immediately
face to face with our final account to receive our final destiny."
And if our final destiny depends in any way on how we have used our
reasoning powers, Professor Stokes will be consigned to a warm corner in
an excessively high-temperatured establishment.

After all, Professor Stokes admits that all he has said, or can say,
gives no "evidence" of a future life. What is the evidence then?
"Well," he says, "the great evidence which we as Christians accept is,
that there is One Who has passed already before us from the one state of
being to the other." The resurrection of Jesus Christ, he tells us, is
"an historical event," and is supported by an enormous amount of most
weighty evidence. But he does not give us a single ounce of it. The only
argument he has for a future state is advanced on the last page, and he
retires at the moment he has an opportunity of proving his case.

Professor Stokes says: "I fear I have occupied your time too long. We
fear so too." "These are dark subjects," he adds. True, and he has not
illuminated them. There is positively no evidence of a future life. The
belief is a conjecture, and we must die to prove or disprove it.